


To Be Good Enough

by Sandtalon



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Matt Murdock, Canon-Typical Violence, Catholic Imagery, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, no clue where im going with this, peter has only just begun his crime fighting in this, possible future team red
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25104175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandtalon/pseuds/Sandtalon
Summary: Matt realizes nobody is stepping up while Spiderman is breaking himself needlessly over city streets and webbed up criminals. Someone should teach the kid how to fight. He doesn't believe he can be that person; doesn't believe he can step over the miles of mistakes and bloody regrets he's built the Devil out of.Somebody has to. Just... not him. Right?Or, Matt sees a teenager fighting and experiences a midlife crisis. Foggy calls him a mother hen. Karen has a criminal empire to defeat. Peter has no clue just how much panic he's causing but is hoping that maybe - possibly - he can get Daredevil to be his teacher in the ways of vigilante justice.(I'm trying to beat writing block, let's see if this works.)
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson & Karen Page, Matt Murdock & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker
Comments: 36
Kudos: 315





	1. Matt

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guess whos back on xir bullshit! I'm switching fandoms to take out writing block so let's see if it works. There will be more symbolism because I have an excuse to use it for once and ohhh wow. I might have gone a bit overboard in the first chap.
> 
> my policy is posting triggers less used by the ao3 tags in the beginning notes. If you want to see one added to these warnings feel free to comment or send an anon on tumblr (@chaotic-tired-cat) letting me know!
> 
> Anyway here's triggers for the chap:  
> -all characters thrown off buildings are perfectly capable of catching themselves on the way down  
> -guns in the fight scene  
> -mention of past gore

Matt is familiar with falling.

The rush of air, a weightless hush that drowns out a thousand echoes in the split second between rooftops and concrete sidewalks. Lack of control is a blessing and a curse, a break from the path he knows he’s on. Faith declares he must follow whatever path He set out, but the Lord is a distant voice on the best of days. On nights like these, it’s completely inaudible amongst the cacophony that is New York.

So he climbs up to the rooftops with tape wrapped around his hands and lets himself fall for a couple blissful seconds.

Seconds where he cannot make the wrong choice.

Suspension of a bad decision.

Until he catches himself on a fire escape and remembers there is right and wrong caught between knives and the dark certainty of what’s being smuggled on the docks. Right and wrong in a question that stretches itself out into a word called mentorship.

Two nights ago, Spiderman hurtled into Hell’s Kitchen, nearly got shot, and Daredevil heard the fear-fast flutter of a heartbeat between the curses. He was close enough to know the punch was clumsy and too telegraphed. When Daredevil hauled him out of a dumpster, Spiderman admitted he had zero training.

Which.

Yeah.

It was a _little_ – okay, more like _painfully_ – clear that the kid didn’t know how to fight.

But that’s no excuse for crashing a Hell's Kitchen Dumpster. Those are for Daredevil and Daredevil alone. One other person gets special permission to pass out there due to having miserable luck, but Hawkeye is on thin fucking ice. Spiderman wriggles away at the border of Hell’s Kitchen, thanks him politely for not stealing his soul, and disappears.

But not before asking for help with his stance.

For advice.

Spiderman wants to learn, and nobody is teaching him survival between insults spit between the teeth of two-bit villains and a community of heroes too caught up in their own self-made tragedies. Not that the Devil is one to point fingers regarding a fall from grace. He knows his faults all too well, knows that if anyone is seen with the Devil of Hell's kitchen there will be a dozen extra targets no kid needs on his back.

He growls at the Spider-child to stay out of Hell’s Kitchen and hides in the shadows.

Daredevil listens to him swing away with a sense of foreboding gloom. He cannot teach, not after what Stick did to him, not when he was recruited for an unwanted war as a child. But the vigilante in Queens is inexperienced despite whatever gives him the strength and courage to fall.

 _“Not my business,”_ Daredevil whispers to himself not even two blocks away. _“Don’t you dare take a student, Murdock.”_

He’s not good at listening to anyone, including himself.

He can’t teach, but Spiderman’s form was so bad it physically pained him. There are rumors – Jessica mentioned Stark’s interest in the new face, and Luke says the kid knocked himself out in Harlem last month. Spiderman is out there taking crowbars to the shoulder and pulling shards of broken glass out of his skin. He is human; breakable in more ways than one. Hurtling down a path with few good endings.

Stark will use Spiderman, not teach him. The other Defenders will keep their distance, and Daredevil…

Daredevil- no, _Matt_ won’t teach. He knows he never had good role models in that department, and Matt will be damned if he lets that mess hurt anyone else.

He can’t teach anyone.

Spiderman walks straight into an ambush at the docks and Daredevil is trailing a suspected Russian mafia informant close enough to hear it happen.

Goddamn.

He _won’t_ teach, but this isn’t sustainable.

The warehouse's windows are boarded up tightly. Ambushers inside snarl curses while reloading their oddly-warm weapons, some sort of tech that’s giving Spiderman a hard time balancing after the first shot lands. It takes a moment for the stale, almost arsenic taste of alien-modified weaponry hits him. Whatever it is requires a reload every couple of shots. It's a miniscule advantace when the force of each shot is enough to tear rough holes in the metal crates around them. The odds are bad enough without it – roughly thirty heartbeats in an enclosed warehouse and only seven unconscious or restrained by web that smells strange and sounds even stranger when air whistles through. Daredevil drops three more before Spiderman notices him.

“Holy shit,” he hears quietly chanted as Spiderman swings up to the roof. Bad decision, that – they’ve lined the support beams with pigeon spikes and chicken wire in some sort of DIY vigilante repellant. “Holy shit, holy shit, that’s Daredevil fighting- _ow!”_

Ah, that’s the barbed wire stretched across the ceiling like a net. They really went all-out for this.

“Walls are clear,” he yells, blocking a punch and dislocating the guy’s shoulder for even trying. He takes the gun-like weapon, tossing it away rather than trying to work out how to use it. Blind man and guns do not mix. Tried that. Never again. Wade tried to argue the point right up until he got shot in the foot.

“Thanks, Mr. Devil!”

Aw, his heart. Daredevil steps to the side and Spiderman drops right down next to him, which is not good manners in the superpowered, crime fighting, whatever-they’re-calling-themselves community. It’s considered rude for a reason. Stepping right up to a probably-paranoid vigilante in low visibility warehouses teeming with opponents will get Spiderman friendly fire sooner or later. It’s not a problem when Daredevil can map all his opponents, but really? That’s basically asking for an accident.

Seriously.

Where are this kid’s self-preservation instincts?

Spiderman blocks a hit by stopping it cold and accidentally breaks the man’s knuckles in the process. He apologizes frantically while webbing him up until Daredevil has enough and yells about redirecting momentum. Human beings are _actually really fragile_ when suddenly meeting an immovable object. Especially hands. All those little delicate bones and tendons in hands, just waiting to be crunched and bruised against a wall or face or a teenager with super strength he’s just barely learned to control.

Spiderman tries to apply the advice and ends up taking a hit when he overcorrects. The alien tech – whatever it is – lets out a low whine before blasting Spiderman back several feet. Metal shrieks as a body slams into it.

Too strong and too fragile all at once with no practice for technique in between. This kid needs to a punching bag to work out his limits.

Another whine echoes across the building and Daredevil dodges before the same weapon can take him out.

They barely dent their opponent’s numbers before one gets a lucky shot in and Spiderman goes down.

_Fuck._

Ribs crunch under a boot before he gets there. This is a bad place to be – a warehouse designed specifically against Spiderman with the vigilante himself down for the count.

He needs to get the kid out.

He needs to explain how to case a situation before walking in the front door like he owns the place.

Is that teaching? Or is that just dropping a convenient piece of advice?

Maybe just one lesson, one conversation about moving with the punches and practicing his footwork when he lines up a kick and _Jesus Christ what was he doing with his weight centered like that-_

But one lesson marks him as someone who can help, and what if one day he’s needed but not there?

Daredevil grapples with the question and tries his best to keep their opponents away from Spiderman. He tracks escape routes and snaps his own bones out of alignment on a dozen others in a desperate quest for clarity. Decisions like teaching a kid how to fight can never be simply dictated. There is no line to follow, no choice laid out in the sand with a higher power whispering _‘this is good, this is bad, and this, my child, is the unforgivable.’_

Sirens find a warehouse but no Devil, no Spider.

Daredevil knows better than to wait around. He takes Spiderman to Claire and weathers the scolding in restless silence.


	2. Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay let's try this from the top, but Peter's perspective. I'm writing it in a different style than Matt's. Also, I wanna clarify that so far there's not really much of a plot or end goal here.
> 
> triggers:  
> Same thing with buildings and all people up high being in control of their falls.  
> Same ambush stuff as last chapter.  
> Discussion of cults

Peter is familiar with climbing.

Sometimes it’s all he ever does. The climb will never be enough, fueled as it is by his ever-present need to do better, _be_ better that’s been burning under his skin since the moment a bullet found it’s way between Uncle Ben’s ribs.

He mixes up new batches of web formula and maps out city streets like a spider weaving his web. He steers clear of Avengers Tower – seriously, who would commit crimes right on Tony Stark’s doorstep – and keeps out of Hell’s Kitchen. The latter is due to a mix of caution and respect.

Daredevil wore a mask before Iron Man built a suit or Thor descended from the sky in lightning and thunder, before Black Widow stepped into the spotlight’s edge and Hawkeye became a household name. He was the first hero to look at the suffering around him and say _no, this is not right, this is not the way my city is meant to be. This is not the future my city needs._

Okay, maybe Captain America was first, but that’s the exception that proves the rule.

Ned lectures him on all this often enough that Peter might be the tiniest bit starstruck when he looks up and finds himself already two blocks into Hell’s Kitchen, tailing a van full of weapons and their traffickers.

Sure, he took a few hits, but he gave as good as he got and no Chitauri tech hit him. Spiderman isn’t quite sure how the night ended besides being dumped in a dumpster. It’s not the comfiest place to be as the truck drives off and fighting noises… increase?

What?

Metal clangs, followed by the dull thud of a blunt object meeting flesh. The silence is oppressive following an adrenaline-filled fight, so Peter may have taken a good second to realize there’s now a figure leaning over the dumpster. Peter rubs a hand over his masked eyes before remembering that won’t clear them, and stares up at a very familiar shape outlined in the city’s ever-bright sky.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Two horns. No visible eyes. Red costume that Peter is suddenly beginning to suspect is red because of all the blood soaked into it. Peter claps both hands over his mouth because _holy shit he’s about to meet Daredevil._

Is Daredevil actually a devil? If Peter says the wrong words, will he get his soul eaten or something? May doesn’t deserve that. He hasn’t even graduated high school. He’s too young to die-

Daredevil grabs the back of Peters suit and hauls him out of the dumpster like a baby kitten.

Peter yelps, scrambling to shake off the starstruck glee and anticipation of Ned’s reaction tomorrow.

Because this is the _actual, real-life Daredevil._

Daredevil doesn’t pay attention to Peter as he surveys the three unconscious men in the alleyway. There were more before the dumpster – Peter doesn’t quite remember how many. He watches nervously as the Devil drags his fingers over a section of brick wall that’s maybe a little crumbled due to Peter panicking and miscalculating his strength.

“What?” Peter exclaims when the silence gets to be too much. “I did my best, okay?! It’s not like there’s an instruction manual on vigilante justice.”

“Then ask for help and tuck your thumb when you punch,” Daredevil rumbles and woah, his voice is really deep. Then what he says catches up and Peter squirms around until he can see something of the local devil’s face.

“Was that- did you just _offer to teach me?”_

Daredevil snarls like a rabid dog out of hell. It’s a jarring reminder that this man might possibly being a demon capable of signing Peter’s soul over to the underworld, which is really not how he wants to be spending his nightly patrol.

Not teaching, then.

Alright.

Good to know.

“Right,” Peter stutters. “I’ll just- stop talking, then. Hey, do you hate garlic? Or is it more of a ‘shall not cross barriers of salt’ kind of deal? Not that I’m asking for any reason or will add them to my suit. You know-”

Daredevil climbs up to the rooftops, scowls in annoyance when Peter follows without pausing for a breath. They wait around until red and blue lights flash across street and police radios chatter down below, which is right about when Daredevil shoves him in a vaguely northern direction.

Peter’s heart jumps right into his throat before he remembers even if Daredevil is rumored to be summoned from hell, he's also the first vigilante and is??

Probably???

Not going to steal his soul????

Ned would have something to say about this situation, but all Peter has to listen to is his Spidey-sense, which seems fairly calm around the guy. That’s two marks in his favor and webs on standby if this is a murder attempt.

Daredevil takes a few steps back as if he can sense Peter’s unease, but continues to herd him across the rooftops like a grumpy sheepdog. Whenever Peter thinks about making a break for it deeper into Hell’s Kitchen, Daredevil starts to get antsy.

Peter decides to wait and see what happens. Maybe this is the first part of mentorship.

Is the vigilante community like a cult?

Oh God, what if Peter is about to join a cult?

Aunt May will be so disappointed in him.

Wait, if he’s a hero does that mean he’s cult-adjacent already?

_Hm._

Peter isn’t a fan of that thought.

Daredevil herds him right to the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, where he makes as if to throw Spiderman right off the building’s roof. This man clearly does not care about the traffic below them. Before he can be exorcized from the Devil’s territory, Peter squirms away and dances out of reach.

The Devil turns slowly, face still in shadow from flickering streetlights below. They paint the air sickly yellow like rotten egg yolks and sulfur. The border of Hell’s Kitchen is a clear enough message, but Daredevil is the first vigilante – first _hero_ to offer help and advice. Peter knows he’s got a long way to go.

He’s climbing with no way to see the ladder.

A little light would go a long way. Last week he tried to talk with Jessica Jones and found out firsthand that the vigilante community is boxed off and away. Gatekeepers on every side, from unreachable Avengers to stern-faced vigilantes.

But not asking is as good as giving up.

“So,” Peter says cautiously, minding his words around a possible actual cryptid. Does Daredevil know Mothman? Are they related?

Well. Now he has no choice.

What, is he supposed to meet a local cryptid and walk away from that prime teacher real estate?

Spiderman watches Daredevil tilt his head and copies it in search of the sound. Nothing.

Huh.

“When you said I could ask – do you have advice? Is my stance wrong?”

Daredevil tilts his head in the opposite direction. “Feet are too wide. Hands higher in guard position, drop your shoulders and tuck in your elbows.” He trails off in a low growl that makes the hair on the back of Peter’s neck stands on end. “Now _go.”_

Right, time to not press his luck with what might be the actual fucking devil. Peter shifts towards the roof edge.

“Okay, thank you for that and also not stealing my soul, Mr. Devil, sir.”

“Stay out of Hell’s Kitchen,” Daredevil says. Maybe it’s just Peter’s imagination, but there’s no way someone should be able to make their voice that deep. The local Devil steps back into the shadows, and is gone a moment later.

Cool.

That’s terrifying.

Peter launches himself off the building. He gets a couple streets away before letting out a _whoop._

He just met the closest thing New York has to an actual cryptid.

Fuck yeah.

A few days later after school, Ned looks up from his computer to whisper about how Oscorp was trying to buy those weapons. Peter goes cold and barely hears the words that follow.

Oscorp was the beginning, the fieldtrip that resulted in a spider bite and all power in the hands of a student yet to learn responsibility. Oscorp is the first domino in a chain that led right up to the now-quiet cemetery and a grave with grass just beginning to grow over churned up dirt. Oscorp is the cause of ashes and dust, broken expectations he never knew existed and so many lives saved every night.

Never enough.

He’s climbing endlessly because Uncle Ben was a good man and Peter isn’t sure he’ll ever live up to the legacy. He can’t fill those shoes.

But he’ll still try.

Power and responsibility weigh on his shoulders side-by-side, weighing him down on the climb up the monument of a legacy nobody knows he is protecting. Nobody asks what Spiderman is fighting for. They see a masked menace to scream at, a red and blue target.

All this, and Oscorp started it in spider silk and a broken glass habitat.

“Peter?” Ned asks. “You’re kind of freaking me out.”

Peter blinks down at his broken pen, ink soaking between his fingers and staining his homework black. “…Sorry.”

Ned gives him a look but doesn’t push. “I went digging after you met Daredevil – so cool, by the way. If you can get an autograph I might actually cry.”

“He tried to throw me off a building.”

_“So cool,”_ Ned repeats. “I tracked that truck through security cameras and found it by the docks. It’s been sitting there all day.”

“Maybe they get all their stuff moved at night?” Peter pauses, considering his homework. He’s mostly done with this, and it’ll only take a few minutes to finish up the essay for English. Ned’s already done. They could put off their homework until Sunday like everybody else, but as MJ likes to remind them, Ned and Peter are _nerds._ Besides, one all-nighter after patrolling too late on a Sunday and realizing he still wasn’t done with the US History project was enough.

Ned shrugs like it’s easy to get the information he does. Maybe it is for him. Peter’s always been pretty average at computer science – chemistry is easier for him. “It’s been there all day. People are going in and out – maybe a couple every few hours or so.”

It’s still a bit light out to go poking around. Peter pulls out his laptop and works on the essay.

He grabs his mask a half-hour later, finds the new burner phone he bought last week, and ducks out of the window. Ned cheers him on quietly.

Right.

Weapon-trafficking leading to a warehouse by the docks. He can do this.

Peter swings across the city, circles the warehouse twice, and checks the windows. They’ve been boarded up, probably in case anyone comes looking. Peter moves across the building front, slipping inside the wide doors. He stays high on the walls, keeping an eye out.

Crates are lined up in neat rows, a couple people wandering around. They all have modified guns – Peter’s pretty confident that glowing blue energy is the same as the alien tech the Avengers fought against during the invasion. Besides the low murmur of a conversation below, it’s quiet. Too quiet, in a stuffy kind of way. He’s not fully adjusting to the mutation, hasn’t been in costume for more than a few months, but the Spidey-sense ripples up and down his spine in nervous anticipation.

White-blue electric fear shoots up his spine and cradles the base of his skull as the Spidey sense shrieks just in time.

Peter dodges a blast from what looks like a Chitauri gun, dropping to the ground to get close and knock the guy out. He realizes his mistake when shadows detach themselves from the crates.

An ambush.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you think I'm avoiding re-writing that ambush you're completely right.
> 
> Next chapter will be a proper length. probably.


	3. Matt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two things to clear up: this chapter messes with the timeline even more, so I've decided to say fuck it and make this an AU. My universe, my rules. And my rules say fuck season three of Daredevil. Also, I've got so many versions of Spiderman i'm writing from, so until I cement Peter's character it's gonna seem a bit fractured. Apologies in advance.
> 
> triggers:  
> alcohol  
> discussion of possible character death

“Spiderman,” Claire hisses at Daredevil once the initial lecture is over, waving at the collapsed teenager on her couch.

Daredevil nods, tucking his legs under him at her kitchen table and listening to the broken air conditioner next door. Somebody is burning incense upstairs, and there’s a TV on to soccer on the neighboring apartment that has rosemary on the windowsill. The announcer’s tinny voice is distracting, a nice separation from the relief in Claire’s voice that it’s not him bleeding on her couch for once, and the horror that a teenager _is._

 _“Spiderman,”_ she repeats with the same slew of emotions, pulling out a wad of gauze. She won’t remove the mask while he's unconscious, and Daredevil won’t explain what’s going on past the injuries. Plausible deniability at its finest. “Did you know he’s a kid?”

Daredevil grumbles a bit in response and shifts further back into the shadows he feels at his back.

He knows.

He knows and it _burns_ that anyone is taking the same hits he did at that age.

“Don’t hide from me,” Claire orders, short on patience and temper with tonight’s surprise visit. “I have an unconscious Spiderman on my couch and a startling lack of answers as to _what the hell,_ Matt.”

“Ribs are broken,” Daredevil says instead of answering. “Third and fourth, right side.”

Claire swears again and turns back to the kid. For a while it’s relatively quiet, and Daredevil rubs fingers over scarred knuckles in the gloves. He took a few glancing hits tonight, but his right hand is in bad enough shape. Two of his fingers are out of alignment.

Claire steps closer, purposefully loud even though he doesn’t need it, and tugs his hand away for inspection.

“Do you think he knows how dangerous this is?” Claire asks finally, medical tape patching up all the broken pieces Matt would let fester, but Daredevil can’t afford to leave alone. It’s the way of things. He falls, breaks, and falls again in search of a few directionless seconds. “If Spiderman doesn’t have anyone looking out for him, he won’t last long. We’ve all seen the news. Colleen says he’s untrained.”

‘Untrained’ is an understatement. Spiderman only rolls with the punches when he’s thrown through a wall.

“His form is about as stable as a wet noodle,” Daredevil admits. “Tactics are even worse.”

“And? Does he have someone supporting him in spider-crimes or whatever it is he gets up to? Does he know he can ask for help?”

 _“Spider-crimes,”_ Daredevil repeats appreciatively. He’s got to use that sometime. Claire snaps off her gloves and leans close. It’s enough of a threat to force him even further back, practically leaning out the open window. Medical professionals are terrifying. They carry the smell of antiseptic, blood, and death under whatever else makes up their lives. It lingers.

Matt hates hospitals with a burning passion, but he trusts Claire, knows she’s capable of calling the shots when his own ability to function slips below acceptable levels. She knows his boundaries perfectly, has discussed scenarios and proper care with him dozens of times. He trusts her, perhaps more than anyone but Foggy, Karen, and Father Lantom.

But that doesn’t change the fact that those in her profession will always carry death and bleach on their skin. Claire is terrifying.

 _“Does_ he?” she repeats, caught between a threat and concern.

“Does anyone, when they start out?” Daredevil takes his hand back and tucks it away. There’s a small hitch in Spiderman’s breathing, a stirring of consciousness. “He’s waking up.”

Claire steps back out of his space.

“That will never not be creepy, Devil-man.”

 _“Devil-man,”_ a teenaged voice repeats, breaking with incredulous glee. It drops into a mumble so quiet Daredevil probably isn’t supposed to hear it. “Oh my God, nobody’s ever gonna believe me.”

Claire huffs and heads back to the couch. She introduces herself by first name only and as a reluctant nurse for local idiots before running through a summary of injuries that are healing far too quickly.

“That’s the mutation,” Spiderman tells her. “I got bit by a radioactive spider.”

Daredevil stays next to the window while Claire works out whether or not Spiderman has a concussion. It doesn’t seem like he does, but that’s a very tiny detail that’s difficult to discern from here, much less do so accurately.

Spiderman won’t remove the mask, so she can’t take a look at his eyes, and they dance around it until Claire gives up. She’s worked with enough vigilantes to know a boundary when it’s collapsed on her couch.

“Then we’ll assume you’re concussed,” she tells Spiderman. “So, no sleeping until symptoms are gone. You’re welcome to take the couch tonight.”

Spiderman shuffles around a bit before finally mumbling “…Thanks.”

“Let me know if you need anything. I’m knocking out,” Claire decides. “Can’t take days off work. _You-”_ she points at Daredevil threateningly, prompting him to shift up closer to the window. “No- stop right there, Red. No running. You brought a kid to my doorstep, so take responsibility. I’m not your babysitter. I’m not Spidermans babysitter. Take alarm duty.”

Words cannot describe how little Daredevil wants to sit around and wake up a Spiderkid every twenty minutes. He’s not old but he feels it, and there’s a storm coming that echoes through the shrapnel buried deep in his hip. Ozone and the precursor to rain taints the air, rising up from the streets like smog. Daredevil wants to get home before that storm breaks.

“I have work,” he grumbles instead of listing the reasons out.

Claire sets a timer on the table. “So do I. And you-”

Spiderman literally _meeps_ when Claire whirls on him. Same, kid. Medics are fucking terrifying.

“I don’t want to see my name connected to vigilantes in any way, but when you get hurt, come find me. Got it?”

Throw blankets crinkle against plastic covers and a spandex mask as Spiderman nods furiously. Claire makes a small noise of satisfaction before returning to her room and practically throwing herself onto the bed.

Spiderman fidgets with the blankets and cycles through a series of nervous tics with movements too small for Daredevil to track. There’s still a light on – he can hear it buzzing over the kitchen sink. One of the cheap bulbs that clips out, a broken connection nobody has the time or resources to fix.

Daredevil shifts onto the windowsill so he’s still close enough to chat but now almost out of the room.

“So,” Spiderman says when the fidgeting is no longer enough to hold back suffocating silence. “Are you really the devil?”

Wow.

What a way to break the ice.

Props for courage, kid. That had to take guts.

“Thought I was possessed a while back,” he offers rather than give a disappointing outright _‘no.’_ “And you’re not the first person to ask.”

“You’re dodging the question,” Spiderman points out, oddly hopeful.

Daredevil heaves a sigh and leans forward into the chilled-honey air. “I’m not that kind of devil,” he promises.

Spiderman makes a hesitantly disappointed noise. “I just lost a bet.”

A bet?

The office has a running betting pool on when one of the Avengers besides Hawkeye will show up and ask that exact question, so it’s not like Daredevil can judge. It’s been going ever since Clint upended a plastic bottle of holy water on Matt when they first met. The man has shit luck, but he’s still a spy rubbing shoulders with gods and therefore fully entitled to paranoid tendencies. He kept shoving crosses in Matt’s face for a month.

“Tough luck,” Daredevil manages through suppressed laughter at the memory, and can’t completely keep the grin off his face. “Don’t go spreading it around, though.”

There’s a lull in the conversation where the silences feel a bit less static. It sinks into the room and saturates the floorboards in quiet mutual respect.

“So,” Spiderman says finally. “Do you have powers that let you fight like that?”

“Maybe. I box a bit,” Daredevil says in the understatement of the year. He’s not answering anything that could lead to the doomed words _‘can you teach me.’_

“Wait, so you don’t have a ninja’s soul you’re pirating skills from? It’s not-“

“Just practice,” he says blandly, and lets the words drop stone-cold with enough weight to shatter the tentative comradery they had only just built. Spiderman flinches back into the couch with a crinkle of plastic, rabbit-fast heartbeat stuttering.

Fuck.

Matt and Daredevil get very different reactions from the same tone of voice. It’s probably the horns. Or the smell of blood he can’t quite wash out of the leather. Actually, maybe it’s just that there’s something slightly unhinged about a guy willing to dress up like the Devil day in, day out and beat justice into the world second by bloody, screaming, second.

Yeah, it’s probably that.

“Sorry,” Spiderman offers, which is a surprise. People don’t generally apologize and mean it around the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Especially not about things that aren’t their fault. “I was just wondering.”

“Don't worry about it.” Daredevil lets his head _thunk_ back against the wooden window frame. He should find that light switch, let Spiderman get some sort of rest before morning. At least it’s a Friday. Matt will be required at the office and Claire works six days a week, but kids get two whole days off.

He remembers thinking that wasn’t enough.

That was before law school.

Back when-

Hm.

Not thinking about that.

“Did you do a perimeter check?” he asks to keep those memories firmly locked away, and only realizes what he said after the words are out. He can’t take them back, not after Spiderman’s heard them and startled badly enough his ribs creaked in protest.

“Yeah,” Spiderman says bitterly. “The windows were boarded up.”

“All the more reason to make your own exit,” Daredevil says. This isn’t teaching. Just… advice, from one vigilante to another. Information is survival. Spiderman should get as much as he can before entering a new location.

Spiderman shrugs, but doesn’t argue. He’s listening. That’s more than Matt did at that age.

Wait.

That’s something an old person would say. Shit, is he old? Maybe he’s getting old.

“That was an ambush,” Spiderman says into the thoughtful silence. Daredevil shrugs like he isn’t caught up in being terrified out of his mind at the prospect of a real mid-life crisis.

“They put barbed wire in the _rafters,_ ” Spiderman says. He sounds almost insulted.

“Yeah? If they can afford alien tech, they can put whatever they want in there. How do you plan to deal with it?”

Spiderman startles. “What?”

“You heard me.” Daredevil laces his fingers and leans out into where the light probably reflects. “There’s a problem, so what’re you gonna do about it?”

Spiderman taps gloved hands over the throw blanket in no particular pattern. “Don't know yet. Not like I can see it until too late. Maybe web it over? What would you do?”

Pain is a tool to be used and nothing else. “Get back up and fight.”

“Then I guess that’s Step One,” Spiderman says, back straightening with a bit more steel, more resolve than before. He’s clever enough to have made that suit and the mechanisms Daredevil can hear scraping against his wrists.

He’ll figure out something for the barbed wire.

Daredevil huffs and settles back in the windowsill. The curtains billow just enough to block his helmet from street view, and in the dark he doubts any passerby will notice their local Devil watching from above. Not at this hour, and not at this angle.

Inside, Spiderman’s breathing levels off into the space between sleep and awareness.

Not long after, Daredevil shakes him awake and returns back to the windowsill.

They don’t talk again, not until Claire’s alarm goes off.

"Later, Devil-man," Spiderman says as he straightens up.

"Be safe, Spider-kid." Daredevil slips off the windowsill into the streets below in the same breath. The morning air is cold and crisp, and he makes it back to his loft before the sun’s warmth fully touches the city rooftops. It’s the quiet kind of day that’s not so much 'lonely' as it is 'alone,' with a content kind of solidarity found only in the few seconds before alarms start blaring across the city.

Matt burrows under cold blankets, curses when his clock softly beeps the time as 5am, and drags himself back out of bed. He leaves a message in the office phone for whoever gets there first that he’ll be a bit late, and sets a new alarm. Three hours to sleep.

_Ugh._

So.

Spiderman nearly dies due to inexperience and nobody is stepping up.

Nobody else seems to be losing their minds about a teenager getting shot at daily and rattling the lower levels of organized crime until they try to ambush him and nearly succeed.

A bright red and blue target, Clint diagnoses. He just took a trainee under his wing; can’t be assed to take another.

Jessica lies and tells him the secret is to not give any fucks. Matt has to physically restrain himself from saying “God, what a mood,” and taking the offered whisky.

Danny tells Matt that he seems like the perfect person to show Spiderman the ropes, which is singularly unhelpful and also wishful thinking. Colleen pokes her head out of the gym to ask Danny how in the _hell_ he thinks Matt will be a good teacher. It’s both mortifying and validating in equal measures.

Luke says he’s staying out of it and advises the same – he’s busy enough with people to protect and a string of assaults in Harlem to track down. Matt promises to keep an ear to the ground for anything that may be related.

Foggy and Karen don’t say anything, because he didn’t ask.

They’re both too smart.

If Matt lets on that he felt even a _sliver_ of protective instinct and wants to maybe-kind-of show Spiderman how to not die, he will never hear the end of it.

There will be mother-hen noises.

And Karen will call honorary godfather. Foggy might call godmother but honestly, he’s just as likely to call godparent and celebrate Matt’s newfound emotion excluding the already-existing amusement, rage, and guilt.

Oh, and the malice reserved for Fisk or the dirty cops that keep popping up like daisies. Can’t forget that.

But there will be no hen-noises or fake baby showers or any other chance of his coworkers rubbing it in Matt’s face that they’ve found a heart under all the leather, because he’s _not teaching anyone._

He can’t.

_Won’t._

Doesn’t want to relive that time, doesn’t want to open up those old wounds to fester in the sunlight and let down a student just like Stick abandoned him. Matt won’t train anyone for a war they have no part in, won’t teach a kid to fight and bleed and _burn._

Spiderman comes down to Hell’s Kitchen after a couple days asking around for a Devil.

He’s found a teacher, unwilling or not, and Spiderman seems intent on being the most annoyingly tenacious prospective student possible. At the very outset this was a bad idea, but now Daredevil has a stubbornly loud Spiderman following him around Hell’s Kitchen.

Why?

Why can’t he go bother another adult, preferably one that actually knows what they’re doing??

Spiderman cheerfully informs him that it’s now on his bucket list to be taught by a cryptid. Ideally that teacher would be the Devil, but if any of the other Defenders want to step up, he wouldn’t be rude like _some people._

This confirms that Spiderman is a brat. Daredevil dumps the kid outside of Hell’s Kitchen and continues tracking down a kidnapping.

That night he loses himself in sirens and plays tag with a metal bat while trying to distract himself from the problem at hand. How does he dodge this? Daredevil nearly finds the answers in the bottom of a dumpster but loses the thought before it can solidify into any real certainty. He drags himself home, prays that he’s not fucking everything up, and falls asleep for a couple hours.

He trips over the doorpost on his way into the office and repeats “fell down a staircase” to their clients like a mantra.

“It’s not Fisk, right?” Foggy asks in the first moment of quiet. “I mean. If it is don’t tell me, but at the same time I’d like to spend my last moments in peace with a very large tub of ice cream and terrible dramas.”

“He’s still gone,” Karen says smugly on the way to her desk. “Vanessa dumped him so he’s trying to win her back from, uh. Italy? They keep moving so it’s hard to keep track.”

Matt nods assent. He’s been dancing in the crossfire between Fisk and the Russians long enough to recognize the month-long ceasefire for what it really is: Fisk is searching for answers, same as the rest of them. Matt has no problem with that so long as it happens far away from his city, and _stays that way._

“Oh, thank God,” Foggy breathes. “In that case, carry on. I do not want or need to know what happened to your face for the public record.”

“Unless it was Oscorp,” Karen chips in with far too much interest.

Matt wrinkles his nose and tries to place the name. “Oscorp? The medical company?”

“You shouldn’t worry about it,” Karen says. “But if the Devil does, tell me what he finds.”

Oscorp is outside of Hell’s Kitchen, making it exactly none of Daredevils business. But the roots of whatever they’re up to have spread to it, so he picks up the few threads Karen lets slip with calculated indifference and traces them through the streets.

There are rumors of a gas, though what it does is anyone’s guess.

Spiderman crashes into him midway through the night, apparently on a similar trail. He’s invested because several of the people who dumped him in that dumpster are smuggling weapons made with alien tech. These are the same people at the warehouse.

Spiderman rightfully found this suspicious and decided something bigger was going on. The guy they’re following collects the stuff auctioned off in these kinds of deals, but specializes in chemicals, and has modified them for weapons before. It sounds like part of a whole group. Too low-level for HYDRA.

The next hour is spent waffling between asking Spiderman if he’s sure about committing crimes on the nightly, and tracking their errant chemical engineer.

Spiderman eventually has enough and throws up his arms to informs him that he is very sure of his crime-fighting, Mr. Daredevil. And also explains that the local Devil of Hell’s Kitchen has no legs to stand on in this issue.

“You know what?” Daredevil says. “That’s fair. I’ll ask Castle if he knows anything.”

“Castle?” Spiderman asks, voice cracking over the name.

“The Punisher,” Daredevil explains. Spiderman’s heart does the equivalent of a whole gymnastics routine.

“Oh,” he says, a little strangled but with clear morbid curiosity. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

Daredevil tilts his head to the side. There’s a cat in the alley behind them and it is absolutely living for that Subway tuna melt it just found. Purring while it eats and everything.

Spiderman fidgets with his hands a bit before leaning in conspiratorially. “He’s gonna shoot at you,” he explains gravely.

“Nah, I’m just gonna fight him.”

This does not seem to fill Spiderman with confidence. _“Why,_ though?”

Daredevil shrugs. It’s a very short list, starting with the fact that he wants to and ending with the fact that Castle won last time. Maybe he’s just being petty.

Actually….

Yeah, he’s absolutely being petty and can’t regret it in the slightest.

“Good luck?” Spiderman tries, edging off the roof. “I’m just- I’m just gonna go. It was nice knowing you.”

Daredevil shrugs, expanding his senses to make sure Spiderman gets out of Hell’s Kitchen safely. Not because he cares – he’s just being cautious with another enhanced vigilante in the area. It’s an important distinction.

Daredevil spends the rest of the night tracking down the Punisher, then regretting that decision. At least he got an address out of it.

Fuck Castle, though.

Wade gives him Hello Kitty Band-Aids after they fight. What does Castle give? A middle finger?

Asshole.

Karen finds out about the fight and tugs him back to her apartment to ask over a bottle if he is bound and determined to bleed out for Hell’s Kitchen. If he sees martyrdom as the last choice for a fallen soul. She wants to know if it will be her or Foggy who is called in to identify his body when the Hand, Fisk, or even a stray lucky bullet finds its mark.

When she pries the mentorship dilemma out of him, she sighs and asks him if this is to save himself, or Spiderman. If this is some sort of atonement for what Stick did. _Penance._ It burns worse than the drinks, even if that last point is said in the silences between words scraped off the inside of his glass.

She has opinions about the mask, same as Foggy.

“It’s killing you,” she tells him bluntly, heartrate slow and even in certainty. She doesn’t waver in the slightest, cold resignation drowning him alongside the alcohol and sleep deprivation.

“It’s killing everyone.”

Matt will bow to nobody. Pride and stubbornness will always be the death of him.

Karen shifts, static skin on cloth and the creaking table under her hip. It was assembled wrong. Two screws are misplaced, IKEA instructions taped to the underside in vain hope of someday discovering the missing pieces. Karen never will – she chases her curiosity to the end of the line, but only reaches for the questions she decides are worth it. Problems left alone find no solutions.

Maybe it’s a metaphor.

Maybe it’s a sign.

Matt reaches up under red glasses to rub the scar tissue beneath and pretend he does not know who that message is for.

“The mask is necessary for me. Not so sure about a kid who has no clue what he’s getting into,” he says wearily, stepping back from the clenched teeth and squared shoulders he’s addressed this problem with until now. “Spiderman needs someone to step in or pretty soon we’ll meet over his casket. _Is_ there any other option?”

“Maybe. Maybe not if the other option is beating up random people in alleyways.” Karen crosses her arms. “Your past is your own and not something I’m going to act like I know about. I’m not the person to ask. Talk to Foggy.”

“Foggy wants me to get a dog so he can pamper it.”

“But he won’t tell you that,” Karen points out. “Foggy saves people. You only know how to sacrifice yourself for them.”

Matt wants to contest that, but he knows better to start arguments with Karen. She’s a reporter with evidence lined up in neat quotes and the large first aid kit tucked under her bathroom sink. Foggy seeks justice from the jury, but that’s a different sort of truth than the one Karen lays out in printed pages for the world to see.

Foggy saves people by drawing them into his orbit.

Karen lays dirty deeds bare to the public and lets people save themselves.

Matt bloodies his knuckles and desperately hopes he’s doing the right thing.

They fit together.

“I’ll talk to Foggy,” he says instead, and Karen toasts his ability to listen to anyone but a higher power for once in his goddamn life. Matt corrects the toast to _including_ a higher power but drinks, nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still no clue what the plot is. Maybe Oscorp matters. Maybe it doesn't. Haven't really thought about it so don't read into it too much.


	4. Matt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note I went a full uhhh. Four? chapters before giving in to the chaos. That's probably a record.
> 
> triggers:  
> I think we're good

“Karen just doesn’t want to waste the effort of telling you what you already know,” Foggy points out when Matt explains the Spiderman dilemma during a slow day. Karen herself has taken the day off like a bloodhound on the scent, and their office is oddly peaceful but for distant traffic and the rustling paperwork of an eviction case.

Matt leans up against the doorway. He can feel the sunlight warming the wood, and long practice has taught him that between here and the window, if he angles this right, he can catch the perfect amount of sunlight on his glasses and reflect it to Foggy’s desk. Foggy has informed him the glare makes him look like an evil villain plotting various crimes.

Matt can get behind that kind of theatrical aesthetic.

What is it the kids are saying? _Be gay do crime?_

As a lawyer he disagrees, but as a dramatic gay vigilante he thinks _abso-fucking-lutely_ he will be gay and do many crimes in the pursuit of justice, thank you very much.

Matt grins crookedly at the thought. “And what do I know, Counselor?”

“That you are not capable of listening to any man, woman, or incredibly talented and good-looking person of neither gender such as myself, unless it is on pain of death and probably not even then.” Foggy sets down the papers. He sounds like he’s smiling. “So, you’re only asking if the answer isn’t one you want to hear.”

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

Matt will not be a teacher; he does not want to mess up anyone’s life but his own.

Foggy’s chair creaks obnoxiously as he leans back, fingers pressed together and tucked under his chin. “So. I’m going to assume you’d like nothing more than to run from this and brood on the top of St. Agnes like some kind of edgy fallen angel, which means the answer you need but don’t want is the opposite.”

“I do not _brood,”_ Matt says, righteously scandalized. “That’s what chickens do. I’m a _goose,_ at least.”

“No. You sir, are a hen. A _mother_ hen. This Spider-child is the first of a whole family of vigilante chicks. We’ll make a team where you gather all your crime chicklets and teach them how to give me gray hairs. It’ll be a bi-annual thing.”

“I’m not taking multiple students, and if I were, they would be gooselets. Geeselets. Baby geese – _whatever,”_ Matt snaps before he remembers he is a lawyer talking to his best friend who is an equally accomplished lawyer. He knows a verbal corner when he hears one, and Foggy just caught him with the oldest trick in the book.

He has a whole degree about not falling for that. Matt’s pretty sure it’s framed on the wall in this very office.

“Wait, no-”

“So you’ll take only one under your wing?” Foggy drums his fingers on the desk and smugly addresses the bobblehead devil on his desk. “No further questions, your honor.”

“This- this is leading the witness-”

“Objection, your honor. The witness is stubbornly avoiding the best course of action because he doesn’t want to deal with his own overactive moral compass. As the amazing and beautiful Best Friend, I reserve the right to call his bullshit like I see it.”

Matt tucks a fist up against his mouth and resists the urge to bury Judge Bobble in the paper shredder. At least not while Foggy is watching.

Foggy positively beams. “You’ll be a great mentor,” he says cheerfully, rubbing Matts nose in the whole mess that was his pride. “Just watch. This is only the start.”

“I don’t want to teach,” Matt says a bit helplessly. There’s nothing else left to really say.

Foggy softens slightly. “Yeah, I kind of figured. Wanna talk it out?”

“I’d really rather just stew in my regret,” Matt offers honestly. “But- maybe. Not really but also kind of. I just- what if I fail him, Foggy? I didn’t exactly have the best role models.”

There’s a hitch in Foggy’s breathing, a tightening of the muscles around his eyes and mouth that always appears whenever Matt’s old teacher is alluded to. Matt continues even as he matches it through strained knuckles and clenched jaw.

“What if I teach him how to avoid getting in over his head and – sure, okay, easy-ish part is over – and then when he needs help, I won’t be there? I can’t be like Stick-“

“You aren’t,” Foggy interrupts firmly, whisper-quiet enough to let Matt continue talking but still audible. The reminder slips through the cracks in his ribs and settles into his chest to strangle his heart in half-fear, half-hope.

He’s not Stick, thank God and all that is holy.

Matt will go down kicking and screaming to keep from being even remotely like Stick. But at the end of the day Stick was a _teacher,_ a trainer of warriors who sent child soldiers off to fight a war of someone else’s making. Matt knows not all teachers are like that. Most aren’t.

It’s just hard to reconcile when the person who forced him to survive, to make sense of the chaos and to tune into the world, _was._

“Don’t compare yourself to him,” Foggy says when Matt lets the silence stretch. There’s a firm note in his voice that wasn’t there before. “I won’t tell you how to live, but don’t you _dare_ think you are anything like that old bastard.”

“But I’d be teaching a kid how to fight, and that-” Matt shakes his head, throat dry with the reminder of the fact he’d be helping someone sign up for this thankless lifestyle. He abandons the thought and moves on. “That responsibility is a package deal. If I’m teaching someone to fight, I’m also making sure they have medical help; they will have armor in their suit.”

“Armor,” Foggy repeats, surprise making his words carefully feather-light. _“Really?”_

“For bullets. Knives. Batons. Tazers, sometimes.”

“…Ah.” Foggy tilts his head, probably studying him. “You know, sometimes I forget what you get up to, and then you drop cute little details like that.”

Matt does jazz hands. “Surprise?”

“Hm.” Foggy laces his fingers. “This Spider-child. He is doing the same gravity-defying, ill-advised, borderline-idiotic stunt work you enjoy when all of us mortal folk are sleeping?”

“New York doesn’t sleep,” Matt says, just to be contrite. “…But yes.”

“No, it hurries along with the rest of us at all hours like an exhausted raccoon, save for your brand of local wildlife that dances in traffic.” Foggy sighs, ducking his head as he thinks. “Question.”

“Answer.”

“Besides Stick, what’s stopping you from making sure this Spider-child knows how not to get beat up quite so badly?”

Matt fidgets. “Stark is thinking about contacting him.”

Foggy makes a politely interested noise that roughly translates to _‘and you’re okay with this?’_

Which.

Not really?

Stark, the billionaire known for making weapons technology and creating the Avengers. The Avengers. Who get into the kind of fights Matt could not care less about so long as they stay the fuck out of Hell’s Kitchen.

Stark, from the Avengers, is looking into Spiderman. There’s no way he isn’t being scouted, which is all kinds of suspicious.

“Oh my God,” Matt realizes in horror. “Foggy- Foggy, if Stark uses him like the others, he’s going to end up burning on a beach before the year is out.”

“Nah,” Foggy says in the voice of someone who’s been dealing with idiot crime-fighting law partners for so long he’s developed invulnerability to panic. “It’ll be space travel. Trust me. Maybe even some weird, horribly written, dead-and-then-returns crisis like in the comic books.”

Matt makes a doubtful noise in the back of his throat even as the answer he’s been looking for finally settles on his shoulders. It feels like an anchor pulling him down. Like drowning and pretending he can swim because he has to survive, has to find the shore. Dead certainty that there’s no other choice but to succeed against impossible odds.

He wonders if Atlas ever crumbled under the weight of the sky or if the lives he held were the real burden.

If he kept standing because there was no other option.

Maybe only one life is enough of a reason.

Spiderman finds him on a rooftop that night and yells, “MR. DEVIL, ARE YOU ALIVE” for everyone, the dried-up bird poop, and God himself to hear.

Charming.

Daredevil’s regretting this tentative association already.

Spiderman skids across the rooftop and plops down several feet away to kick at the gutters. “So. Were you looking into Oscorp? Because I was maybe following a guy and he said you were a dead man walking.”

“That’s nice of them,” Daredevil decides. He hasn’t gotten that one in a little while.

“They’re collecting alien weapons from the invasion.” Spiderman shuffles a bit, peering out into the city streets. “How can you see anything from up here?”

“Sight’s overrated.”

Spiderman makes a disgusted noise at the non-answer.

“Rumor is whatever they’re making is Osborn’s pet project,” Daredevil continues. “If it gets leaked and out to auction there’s no chance of stopping it completely.”

“Ha. Gas. Leaked. Pun.” Spiderman hesitates. “That was a pun, right? Because if it’s not and a gas, I might freak out just a tiny bit.”

“Selling it to the highest bidder isn’t any better.” Daredevil tilts his head while he thinks, categorizing the movement of the city around them. Car wheels slosh through puddles left by that afternoon’s rain and cigarette smoke filters up from the streets. Someone is screaming curses nearby as the television drones on with music. A subway passes far below them, vibrations rising through the building.

The city is alive, and he can feel it breathing.

“Oscorp is medical,” he says over the distant rumble of a jammed vending machine. “There’s no reason for them to release it street-level when all the money comes from higher up.”

“Maybe the CEO is a nice guy,” Spiderman offers.

Daredevil shakes his head. “Not everyone’s Stark. Actually, I take it back. Stark can get fucked. Not everyone is Rand.”

“Who’s that?”

“An idiot.” It’s not his business what Rand does. But he means well and does less damage than Stark despite all the… _Danny-ness_ about him. Between the two, Rand is the better choice. Not that he’ll ever admit it to the guy’s face.

Spiderman fidgets, drumming his heels against the concrete ledge in a nervous tick. “He doesn’t hang out in sewers, does he? Because I have way too many villains in sewers and I don’t think the washing machine can take it.”

“Sewers?”

“Yeah, it’s like every week there’s somebody new down there. No rats yet, though. They would have found me by now.”

Daredevil screws up his face and tries not to think about that. God, this kid is such a disaster. On one hand he really doesn’t have much room to judge, but on the other hand _holy shit._ Sewer-villains. Up from the pits of hell-stench and everything.

Wait.

Rats.

“Sewers,” Daredevil realizes.

Spiderman’s voice goes suspicious. “Yeah?”

“Clint believes in the Rat King.”

There’s a long silence where Spiderman rustles around anxiously.

“Clint? Barton? I mean. I’ve never talked to him?”

“The Rat King?”

Spiderman’s rustling turns gleeful at the incoming chaos. “Him or Hawkeye. I guess within every colony of rats, there has to be one who believes themselves to be king, queen, or ruler, right?”

Daredevil taps the concrete ledge speculatively. “Your point?”

“Well- If a rat believes themselves to be a ruler, and none of the other rats object, does that make it a Rat King? What’s the criteria here? Because maybe it’s not a king. Actually, what makes a ruler?”

Ah.

Philosophy.

Daredevil straightens up, back on even ground. The best way to deal with problems like this are to beat them into submission.

Oscorp will take time to deal with, and whatever they’re making isn’t even halfway done. That’s at least two weeks to figure this out, probably more if they go official and do clinical trials or whatever tests medical places do. Two weeks to make sure if something happens to either of them Spiderman has at least one other vigilante he can get help from.

He can build up Spiderman’s support network and fight a Rat King all in one night. This is perfect. He’ll talk to Clint first about the Rat King and then maybe introduce Spiderman to…

…not Jess, she’s probably wasted right now. Luke’s still busy with his assault cases and getting stressed about the last one which hit a family friend. On the other hand, Danny’s probably half-dead if Colleen’s call to Karen counts for much. He made the questionable choice of challenging her to a no-powers match. Clint is either going to be busy helping him with the Rat King, or watching an old SHEILD executive Matt’s heard moving near the border of Hell’s Kitchen.

Wade and Castle are both very bad ideas.

Daredevil frowns out across the rooftops. So much stress to work off, so little time. Now he really wants to fight the Rat King.

“I’m gonna fight it,” he tells Spiderman.

“I’ve never heard of Rat Kings before today, but sure?” Spiderman drums his heels against the concrete faster in excitement. “And you can teach me how to fight a Rat King. Everybody wins.”

Well. Only one thing to do now. Daredevil stands up, filtering out the nearby sounds. They’re too high up to get a good read, and he only has the nearest blocks.

“Alright.” Daredevil steps off the building ledge, catching himself on a windowsill below. “Be off with ye, spider-child. I’m going hunting.”

“Like I’m going to miss this,” Spiderman whispers before starting up a chant of ‘Rat King.’ “I’m gonna make a list of all the cryptids in New York,” he says as Daredevil tries to figure out whether it’s worth going all the way to Bed-Stuey tonight. “And I’m gonna meet all of them.”

“Not fight?”

“I can’t fight Thor,” Spiderman reasons. “He’s like. Made for hugs. I’ll fight almost everyone else, but I want hugs from him. No fighting.”

“Not with that attitude, you won’t.” Daredevil kind of wants to fight Thor now, but also.

Priorities.

Rat King.

That’s one big rat, right? He’s pretty sure there are myths of it being lots of small rats all tangled up into one big evil rat. Either way, he kind of wants to fight it now. Anything that talks less than Fisk has to be good.

Daredevil shakes himself out of that thought pattern and proposes the novel idea of leaving him the fuck alone to Spiderman, who has gained half a backbone since meeting him.

“You’re looking for the Rat King,” he says hanging upside-down from a streetlight. “I’m not missing this.”

Which is fair, but still missing the point. It figures, though. Daredevil has never met a single teenager capable of taking instructions regarding anything beyond directions to food.

He complains about this until he catches wind of Clint right before they reach the East River. There’s gunpowder with him and the bitter taste of week-old coffee all drenched in wet dog. He’s got chocolate on him somewhere. It takes Spiderman a couple moments to realize he’s stopped, and come swinging right back.

“Double D?”

Daredevil absently signs for quiet and tilts his head, trying to get a lock on Clint’s location. He’s got an open packet of chips. Salt and vinegar. Must be high up for the smell to carry so far.

“Found him,” he says.

Spiderman’s been mimicking his head-tilting with increasing frustration, and perks up at this. “The guy behind Rite Aid?”

Daredevil has to actually stop and realize that non-enhanced individuals probably can’t hear the man swearing violently at the end of the block. It’s a bit too far.

“Huh,” is all he says to that. Spiderman makes a faintly outraged noise.

Eh. Too bad, Daredevil isn’t asking about whatever spiders can hear. If he asks, he will be tempted to teach, and that’s _not_ happening. Now that Daredevil thinks about it, he really should have thrown Spiderman off the last roof.

Anyway, it’s time to widen the kid’s support network. Where’s Clint?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to clarify I know all of jack and shit about rat kings except a couple pieces of old folklore. Like the rest of this fic, all rat king content is gonna be made up out of thin air. It's inspired by Hilda, tho.


	5. Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guess who opened the doc and saw a chapter ready to go so here you are. I still don't know about Peter or Ned's characterization.
> 
> triggers: none?  
> Just don't google squirrel kings or rat kings if you get grossed out easily.

Peter has no clue why they have to talk to Hawkeye first, but Daredevil seems to have taken him not knowing the archer as a problem to be fixed ASAP. Not that he’s complaining. The enhanced community keeps to themselves almost too much, and any opportunity to worm his way into their ranks is too good to pass up.

On the way to Bed-Stuey, Daredevil stops abruptly, flicks his head in several directions like an owl, and grins with all those white demon teeth. He’s listening to something, so Peter tries to filter out the noise and trace it. Filtering through the dull roar of noise around them feels like swimming through a bog.

Peter abruptly remembers all the rumors that Daredevil can see sins from across the city. When the vigilante cryptically announces he found someone, Peter has a second of panic that he’s after the guy behind Rite Aid for littering or something.

“Huh,” Daredevil says when he asks.

_ ‘Huh?’ _

Fucking.

_ ‘Huh???’ _

What does that even  _ mean? _ Peter squints, then squawks in outrage when Daredevil disappears into the shadows. He reappears distantly just long enough to jump to the neighboring rooftop, and continues on his merry way.

Just.

You know.

Leaving Peter to stew in the confusion of what the absolute fuck that meant.

“Clint,” Daredevil calls back, somehow sensing his bewilderment without looking. It also clarifies absolutely nothing. Peter is quickly beginning to realize he picked the most stubborn, unwilling Mr. Miyagi out of the vigilantes, which really isn’t saying much when Daredevil is also the only one willing to give him the time of day.

But they’re going to meet Hawkeye. Peter can’t miss that.

Daredevil stops him near their destination to disappear into the shadows because, as Peter is quickly beginning to find out, he’s got a chronic need for drama. This point is solidified as fact in Peter’s mind when Daredevil returns with a handful of ice, practically giggling.

He gestures for silence.

Peter, in his infinite wisdom, follows the errant Devil up a building. There’s no way anyone can be that quiet on a fire escape, but the devil manages just fine. Peter forsakes it for the brickwork.

Daredevil somehow makes absolutely no noise when he moves across the rooftop. There’s a pile of tarps and scattered coffee cups off to one side, practically spilling over the building edge. The spidey sense flickers on and off, a delicate, barely-there pressure under his skull. It doesn’t seem to think he’s in danger, or at least not much.

Peter stays low in the shadows.

Maybe it’s a villain. If they’re talking about strange enhancements there’s probably a reason for ice. Hawkeye’s probably after the guy-

Daredevil shoves the ice under a tarp.

Somebody squawks as a knife flicks through the air. It barely misses Daredevil, who jumps back with a bark of laughter, looking for all the world like Christmas came early in the form of a stressed Hawkeye lunging out of the tarps. Hawkeye only seems to realize who he’s punching after it lands.

“Shit,” Hawkeye, the local Avenger who stood with Thor and the Black Widow. “Fuck, man-”

Daredevil laughs so hard Peter starts to feel concerned. He’s clutching his bruised side and weathering Hawkeye’s complaints with the air of someone who feasts upon misery.

“Aw, c’mon,” Hawkeye is saying as he collects the wayward knife. “Why’d you have to go an’ be an asshole like that?”

“Have you met me?”

Peter glares are this strange comradery. Is there some sort of test he has to pass before being treated like an equal? Maybe it’s a jenga match. Peter kind of hopes so. He’s unbeatable at jenga. That would be easier than the more likely ‘beat this villain and you’re in’ kind of logic Ned’s theorized.

“Fair point,” Hawkeye decides after a half second of consideration. He notices Peter approaching and beams. “Oh hey, you’re the new kid, right? Spider-something. Spiderling.”

“Spider _ man.” _

“Spiderman. Right. Nat says she doesn’t care about ripping off themes but I don’t believe her. Yet.” Hawkeye picks up one of the  _ many _ energy cans surrounding his feet. He frowns at it before searching for a non-empty specimen. “We have so many bug-people. Ant-man, Wasp, Black Widow-“

“Spiders aren’t bugs, though,” Peter points out in the interest of fairness.

Hawkeye waves a hand. “Ehn.”

“Isn’t there a telepath named Mantis?” Daredevil asks. “She got in my head and started freaking out.”

_“Duh,”_ Hawkeye huffs into the energy drink he’s located. “That’s bugs for you.”

“Bugs,” Peter repeats, and can't help but feel morally insulted. “Not spiders. I will not have my good name maligned like that.”

“Why bugs?” Daredevil asks, sitting on the edge of the roof and not looking at either of them. Hawkeye doesn’t seem too bothered, so Peter takes that as a sign that this is normal for the actual Devil. “Why not sharks?”

“I will not have Sharknado in this city,” Hawkeye points out with his can. “Do you know how weird my life is already? Christ, adding sharks is how people get themselves stuck in a time loop.”

Daredevil makes a noise of disgust. “Time travel isn’t real.”

“Have you  _ time traveled,” _ Peter asks Hawkeye, because there is no fucking way he’s leaving this roof without getting that answer.

An answer Hawkeye refuses to give.  He says, “psh. Time travel,” which is the opposite of an answer, and returns to the edge of the roof where a sniper rifle is set up under a pile of tarps.  “Awe, hell. He moved.”

“I thought you were a bow and arrows guy,” Peter asks quietly, and Hawkeye squints at him.

“What?”

“You know, archery.”

Hawkeye shrugs, missing the point by a mile. “Not today.”

That’s about as clear as the tarps.

Daredevil crouches next to him. “Who are you tracking?”

“Uhhh, hold on. Tommy- Timmy? Some old-school name. Fifth window from the right, two floors from the top. Old guy who wouldn't know quality television if he ever bothered to change the channel. Only watches the news day in, day out. Man needs a hobby. Maybe not knitting. Too stabby. Nah, that’s a scrapbook man.”

Peter joins them, peering into the tiny apartment. Its paint is peeling and there’s about twice as many lamps as any reasonable person would need, but the big rad armchair is devoid of occupants. The carpet is ugly. It sets off Peter’s Spidey-sense from here.

It’s probably convinced that if he steps foot in that apartment, he  _ will  _ trip.

“Pacemaker?” Daredevil asks, like this is an actual way to identify people. Once again, Peter attempts to communicate doubt through the mask and once again, Daredevil misses it entirely.

Hawkeye snaps his fingers. “That’s the one. Probably smells like stale Cheetos.”

These are bold words from a man who smells like old coffee, wet dog, and gun powder.

Daredevil does his head-tilting thing, which Peter once again tries to copy. There’s so damn much in this city every second. Peter doesn’t get it – every other part of the mutation is useful. Mostly. But the enhanced senses do nothing but make a dull roar louder. He can’t get any information out of it.

“You have it too?” Hawkeye asks abruptly. Peter snaps back into focus to find a very blond archer leaning into his space.

“…What?”

“The hearing.” Hawkeye taps a finger to the side of his head as if making sure Peter knows what he’s talking about. What is with these old people and being cryptic all the time? “Red said he won’t teach, but if you’ve got the same-“

“Not a teacher,” Daredevil calls over. He’s migrated to the corner to better impersonate a triangulating owl. Hawkeye huffs at the devil and fiddles with his equipment.

“Yeah, yeah. So, you have super-hearing too?”

_ Wait. _

_ “You _ have  _ super-hearing?”  _ Peter asks his horrible mentor-figure, too outraged to care that his voice just cracked. Daredevil tilts his head at the sound of someone nearing their max capacity of emotions.

“I mean,” the absolutely terrible teacher says. “Do you?”

UGH.

_ “Yes!” _ Peter whisper-screams.

“Huh,” Daredevil says again, and goes right back to his owl impersonation.

_ Oh. _

_ My. _

_ GOD, _ this man is exhausting. Peter makes a sound reminiscent of tea kettles and throws up both hands. Hawkeye wheezes out a laugh like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

“Same, kid,” he says, not looking up from the scope. “Just light some incense and call it a day.”

Peter stops tea kettling to consider this. He’s got absolutely no reason to carry that as Spiderman, but if it will clear up Daredevil’s devil-ness then anything’s worth a shot.

“Does that do anything?” he asks, morbidly curious. Hawkeye thinks about it for a moment, propping one hand under his chin before giving his head a definite shake.

“No, but the smell might ward him off. Worth a try, though.”

Daredevil makes a disgusted noise which is as good as confirmation.

“Super hearing,” Peter hisses at the Devil, who sneers right back with gleaming white teeth.

So many teeth.

Like a rabid wolf.

A living shadow dragged up from Hell’s gates to its Kitchen, reeking of terror not his own. No wicked souls are saved by the Devil. They beg and beg, but rest for the wicked is a pipe dream washed into rotting gutters long before it can come to fruition. Devils are made for those who seek them in all the worst ways.

Laughter and gleaming white teeth asking him just what deal he’d like to make with the Devil today.

“Rat King,” the Devil spits.

…What?

_ “What?” _ Peter hears himself squawk. The unholy terror leeches out of his lungs and is replaced with insulted confusion. He was terrified out of his mind, and now there’s no payoff.

Peter almost feels cheated. Actually, he  _ definitely _ feels cheated. If his life is a horror film it has to be two stars at best, because nobody in their right mind would pay for that kind of disappointment.

Hawkeye makes a similar noise with the exact same emotions and even goes so far as to peel his eye off the rifle scope.

“Rat King,” Daredevil repeats.

“What are you doing with my neighbor?” Hawkeye asks, which is a mental image Peter never knew he didn’t want. Ugh. Neighbors with a Rat King? No thanks.

“We’re hunting the Rat King,” Daredevil explains eerily. “And you believe in him.”

Hawkeye glances between the Devil and Peter a couple times before evaluating the refuse around him. “I  _ can’t,” _ he whines. “Tom’s under protection and he got a bomb threat yesterday.”

Peter’s Spidey-sense proceeds to freak the fuck out, several minutes late.

Useless.

“A bomb?” Peter asks politely, rubbing at this temples to ward off the panic and the headache.

Daredevil cocks his head. “You mean the buzzing thing under his floorboards?”

Hawkeye stares at him for a few seconds before bursting into motion.

“Help us find the Rat King,” Daredevil says once the bomb is dealt with and the apartment is swarmed by various uniforms. Peter never had to leave the rooftop, but Hawkeye went rattling down the stairs to flash his Avengers ID and step on a mouse trap. He returned with coffee from the old man’s kitchen that he specified was bitter, cold, and brewed yesterday. The cream was apparently expired but still tasted decent. This was consumed apathetically with the Devil and a Spider as witness.

Hawkeye shoots Daredevil a disgusted look over his nasty coffee. “No way in hell.”

“I’ll buy pizza,” the Devil offers.

“Oh, cool.” Hawkeye shoulders his bag of equipment. “When are we heading out?”

Peter needs a solid day to get over that kind of whiplash. Plus, it’s getting late. Early. Whatever. He has school.

“Tomorrow?” he suggests. “Too little night left today.”

“Thursday,” Daredevil corrects.

“Saturday,” Hawkeye says. 

Daredevil growls, but the archer holds his ground. 

“Because  _ justice,”  _ he points out, and apparently that’s the magic word to make the Devil compliant. He gets halfway across the roof before stiffening and marching back to snarl at Hawkeye that ‘justice’ is not a valid excuse.

It still  _ works,  _ which feels like a miracle.

Saturday.

Rat King.

Ned is going to lose his mind.

“I hate you both,” Daredevil promises them, and vanishes over the roof edge. Hawkeye tracks his progress over the rooftops long after Peter loses him.

“Red’s got a thing about justice,” Hawkeye says when Peter asks how he did that. “Never fails.”

Peter types it into his notes app, along with a reminder to ask about time travel and super hearing. He looks up at whispered curses as Hawkeye comes to a harrowing realization of just how much trash he’s scattered around the roof.

He’s going to hunt down a Rat King with Hawkeye and Daredevil. This is great.

“Ned,” Peter hisses, tapping the window glass frantically. He’s not too visible in the shadows, but at the right angle anyone passing by could see Spiderman hanging upside down over an apartment window. The sooner he’s inside, the better.

“Ned!”

Something falls over inside before Ned shoves the window open. “What? It’s so late-“

Peter drops inside the dark room, nearly trips over the Lego kit they were working on earlier, and springs for the desk chair. He almost falls off, but a sticky hand on the desk saves the day. A jar of pencils and desk kitsch clatters to the floor, taking a whole sheaf of papers with it.

“That never gets old,” Ned tells him, shutting the window with a grunt. “What’s up?”

Peter gathers the papers, places them on the desk, and stalls further by tucking his legs up on the chair. This is big news. He has no idea how to share it, and the nervous energy flexes and curls around fidgeting hands.

“Well?” Ned demands.

“Daredevil wants to fight the Rat King so he found a bomb for Hawkeye and we’re all going to the sewers to find it on Saturday,” Peter bursts out.

Ned  _ stares. _ “Oh my God.”

“I know,” Peter whispers with barely contained glee. Ned has started to pace.

“Daredevil and Hawkeye.”

“I  _ know.” _

“Rat!  _ King!” _

_ “I know.” _

“Isn’t Daredevil the actual Devil? There are theories that he can only fight people who have murdered or something first, and if Daredevil can’t fight it, you should be ready with a backup plan.” Ned sits and steeps his fingers, already deep in thought. “I’m just saying, it’d suck if you find it but a whole third of your party is useless.”

That’s a good point. Peter is  _ not  _ fighting it. No fighting, no rat hugs. Just asking it for it’s secrets and maybe a signature to ensure bragging rights. 

“We need intel,” Ned declares over his steeped fingers like an old-school villain. He pulls over his laptop as Peter unlocks his phone.

_ Rat Kings. _

The image results are not encouraging. If Peter’s being honest, they take his motivation from a solid 78% down to roughly 18%, and that’s not counting the mental scarring via wikipedia.

“This is New York, and you’re sewer-monster bait,” Ned reasons after reading the scientific definition. “There will be royalty. I heard there’s a pizza guy who delivered to enhanced turtles in Brooklyn.”

“Turtles? Maybe they have kings”

“...Turtles don’t seem like the monarchy type.”

“Squirrel Kings have existed,” Peter reads off his phone. 

Ned purses his lips and considers their options. “So go ask Squirrel Girl if her squirrels have kings.“

“I'm not talking to Squirrel Girl,” Peter counters immediately. She terrifies him more than any villain or devil vigilante out there. There was a news story last week confirming Dr. Doom is scared shitless of her, and that’s all the confirmation Peter needs to steer clear. She walked right up and scolded him. Just. Right in his face.

And he packed up his evil plan and called it a day.

Peter refuses to talk to Squirrel Girl. That’s power no mortal should hold and Aunt May taught him better than to go around messing with that. Weirdness has standards. He has to draw a line in the sand. Ned sees this, acknowledges the mortal limits of spider-kind, and moves on to the question of if Rat Kings are technically enhanced.

They spend longer than intended researching.

This is a mistake, yes, but it’s one Peter is fully prepared to face alongside two famous vigilantes and his terrible Parker Luck. It’s gonna be great. He’s ready to step into the city’s underside with trust built spider-silk thin between two legends and shoulders that aren't strong enough to carry the world. Not yet. But he’s climbing higher every day.

“Bring a flashlight,” Ned says, typing away at his laptop. The blue screen light reflects off his face in an otherwise dim room. “Are you bringing rocks and stuff?”

Peter is now. There’s no harm in carrying a bit of obsidian. Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there are spelling errors I'm not fixing them rn, so just... wait a bit. Please. I can't move this cat. Cloves says hi.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! this is my attempt to beat writing block and also to write what I want without worrying about if it fits the narrative. I'll be updating on a wonky schedule because of it.
> 
> A quick note: I've never written a blind character. I'll be researching how to do so while I write, but there will inevitably be a point where I mess up. Let me know (kindly!) in the comments if/when I do, and it'll be fixed right away!


End file.
